Who can know this that has not felt it? You do not know--you can
not know.
Surely I do not ask too much. But whether or not it is too much I
can not go through the years without it--oh, I can not!
You have lived your nineteen years, fine world, and you have lived
through some after years.
But in your nineteen years there was some one to love you.
It is that that counts.
Since you have had that some one, in your nineteen years, can you
understand what life is to me--me--in my loneliness?
My wailing, waiting soul burns with but one desire: _to be loved--oh,
to be loved_.
March 29.
I am making the world my confessor in this Portrayal. My mind is
fairly bursting with egotism and pain, and in writing this I find
a merciful outlet. I have become fond of my Portrayal. Often I lay
my forehead and my lips caressingly upon the pages.
And I wish to let you know that there is in existence a genius--an
unhappy genius, a genius starving in Montana in the barrenness--but
still a genius. I am a creature the like of which you have never
before happened upon. You have never suspected that there is such
a person. I know that there is not such another. As I said in the
beginning, the world contains not my parallel.